by Van ©2019
		Chapter 1

"Sbf."  Self bondage female.

It's a "storycode" or "tag" used by internet story sites (like Grommet's Plaza) to tell people who are thinking about reading a story bearing said storycode/tag that the protagonist is a person of the female persuasion (two X chromosomes) who likes to tie herself up.  "Solo-F."  Same thing.  I'll be frank, I have been known to read such stories.  Why?  For several reasons:

1. I've also been known to indulge in such shenanigans from time to time (meaning Sbf/Solo-F), but no more than once a week... maybe twice
2. Stories can be a good source of technical information, although truly original ideas are few and far between;
3. Also, I find the well-written ones fun to read, okay?  Sue me.

I suppose an introduction is in order. 

Hi, my name is Anne.  I'm in my twenties (but my precise age is none of your business).  I'm just over 5' 6", my hair is blond, my eyes a very pretty and not all boring shade of brown, and my features are cute, as in girlish, as in somewhat juvenile (or so they tell me).  I've learned to live with it.  My complexion is fair, as in pale, as in must-use-SPF-50.  And I suppose you should know I'm generally considered something of a nerd.  I wear glasses, I have a brain, and I'm not afraid to use it (meaning the brain).  In fact I've been told by my teachers and supervisors that I'm "sharp as a tack."  I've learned to live with that too.

You want more details?

• Measurements—34-25-30.
• Bra size—34B.
• Weight—110 lbs.  (Okay, 114.)
• Turn-ons—Self bondage (but not obsessively), reading good books by the fire, and long walks on the beach.
• Turn-offs—Nosy people who rudely demand personal information!

As for work, I'm a bureaucrat, one of those dedicated public servants who keep the proverbial gears of local government turning and make sure the proverbial trains run on time.  I won't tell you what department I work for, but thank goodness it's not the Assessment Office.  That's where people go to rant about their property taxes, as if whoever happens to be manning the service counter that day is personally responsible for the tax code.  Those unfortunates put up with a lot of grief and have the patience of saints (in my opinion).  Anyway...

I have a BS in Management from Lewis & Clark University (Go Explorers!) and I like my job (believe it or not).  A certain satisfaction comes from understanding the ins and outs of a complex system and making sure it functions properly, especially if the system in question is something important, like government.  I'm saving to earn my MBA and become more promotion-worthy, but work isn't what this is about.  What this is about has already been stated: self bondage.

My interest started in when I was very young.  For some mysterious reason, I developed a... shall we say... appreciation of Damsels-in-Distress as depicted in movies, television, and literature in general.  Whenever a female character found herself tied up as a hostage or kidnap victim... I'd perk up (but not so my parents would notice, of course).  The same went for costume dramas with medieval maidens chained in dungeons or horror movies with Female Victims tied to chairs or tables.  I always mentally edited out any unhappy endings for the horror movie damsels in question.  I was there for the binding and gagging and helplessness, and most definitely not for the gratuitous blood, gore, and death.  Yuk!

And then there were the Nancy Drew books and Kim Possible cartoons.  I found both of them to be very inspirational.  The usual totally undeveloped female characters written into scripts solely for the purpose of giving the male lead someone to rescue are boring.  As set pieces, the damsels' bound and gagged predicaments can be entertaining, but they, the damsels in question, are boring.  Nancy and Kim were not boring.  Nancy and Kim were role models.  They were pretty and smart and talented and on occasion just happened to find themselves bound and gagged in some dank basement, dusty attic, dilapidated shack, decrepit old boat, etc., or bound and maybe gagged and about to be subjected to Dr. Drakken's latest unspeakably horrific and unnecessarily complicated deathtrap, respectively. That's how I felt about it then, and that's how I feel about it now.

So... being an only child, I had my own bedroom.  At night I experimented with scarves, elastic sports bandages, and the odd lengths of rope.  I was too chicken to try anything truly elaborate (being terrified of one of my parental units barging in and discovering their sweet young daughter tied up on her bed and pleasuring myself).  I always used just enough bondage to allow me to snuggle under the covers and have fun, but still be able to quickly free myself if one of them knocked on my door.

During that period I learned there are limits on the game other than those imposed by fear of discovery.  I've already mentioned my fair skin.  Ropes tied too tightly often leave rope-burns, and on more than one occasion I was forced to wear a long-sleeve blouse or turtleneck to school on a day when a sleeveless top would have been much more comfortable, all in order to hide a pair of red wrists.  Also, tight cleave-gags can lead to, uh, gag-burns?  That might not be a recognized word, but it's definitely a thing.  A red mark in the corner of your mouth that isn't quite a bruise can be explained away as a case of Advanced Pillow Face only so many times without arousing suspicion.

Anyway, I survived high school and college without my secret being discovered.  And then... I was released into the wild!  Yippee!

I landed an internship at City Hall, which led to my current job, which gave me the wherewithal to find a nice place to live, where I settled in to refine my "hobby."

So, about my Secret Lair of Self-Bondage...

First of all, it isn't like that.  I absolutely am not obsessed with tying myself up.

Second of all, it's a cottage, not a lair.  Specifically, it's an authentic Greene and Greene bungalow situated at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a nice neighborhood on the edge of town.  The cute little one-story structure (with full basement and separate garage) is actually the "guest house" of a much larger Greene and Greene structure that can only be called a mansion.  In fact, the bungalow's driveway is actually a side turn off the grand driveway of the aforementioned mansion.  Both structures are surrounded by towering cedars and the entire cul-de-sac, in turn, is surrounded on three sides by a large City Park that's more an urban forest with hiking trails than a giant green lawn (although there is a nice dog-park and a picnic area, with tables).

More about the mansion later.

Our bungalow is really nice.  There were a lot of similar single-family homes scattered about that part of town, built in the first half of the 20th century.  Most have settled into traditional Arts & Crafts color schemes of various subdued shades of green, brown, and other earth tones.  The bungalow and mansion are no exception.  Both are dark brown with redwood trim.

Yes, that's right, I said "our bungalow," which brings me to the other reason it isn't my "Secret Lair of Self-Bondage."

I have a roommate... meaning a bungalow-mate.

Her name is Logan, she's about my age and is very pretty.  She's also a hoot-and-a-half, as the saying goes, and I love her a bunch.

Logan's stats:

     Hair—Red.
     Eyes—Green.
     Complexion—Fair and peachy-pink.  (She is a redhead.)
     Height—5' 6".
     Bra size—34B.  (We can share clothes!)
     Weight—Same as me, I suppose.

Logan is a looker.  Really.  She's undeniably beautiful, but her gorgeousness is overpowered by her cuteness, if you know what I mean.  I've been told I suffer from the same unfortunate condition.  We're both adorable, and there's nothing we can do about it.  Life goes on.

Also, Logan is athletic, but without being a fanatic about it.  She runs, swims, hikes, goes to yoga class, and drags me along for company.  I appreciate it.  Staying in shape can be a challenge for somebody like me.  I spend most of my days with my butt planted in a comfy office chair and crunching numbers, updating spreadsheets, writing memos, and/or guesstimating budget proposals.  I need to be dragged away for exercise now and then, meaning on a regular basis.

As for the hoot-and-a-half issue, Logan is a lot of fun to have around.  She's funny, smart, and witty.  Also, we share the same tastes in movies & TV, decor, food, clothes, and she couldn't be a more considerate bungalow-mate.  Equitably sharing the grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, and other housekeeping chores is never an issue.  I really like Logan, and consider myself supremely lucky to have stumbled upon the listing for the bungalow.

As for Logan's employment... it's a little odd (in my politely incurious opinion).  She works for the owner of the aforementioned neighboring mansion and spends the working hours of her normal work week at said mansion.  Needless to say, Logan has a very short commute.  We don't discuss the details of what she actually does at the mansion (just as I don't bore her with the ins and outs of how I personally resolve the various bureaucratic dramas that threaten to bring down municipal government), but I've come to suspect Logan is what might be called an "executive maid."  She plays some role in keeping the mansion tidy, but mainly she's a companion and/or secretary and/or troubleshooter for her employer, who (in Logan's words) is a "nice lady."

By the way, the nice lady/employer in question is also our landlord.  I know her name—Kelly Travers—but we've never actually met.  I signed my lease at a real estate management office and pay my rent via direct deposit.  I've seen her on the rare occasions she happens to be driving down the driveway in her luxury SUV hybrid while I happen to be gazing out the window.  To tell the truth, I'm not even sure what she looks like.  Her SUV's side windows are tinted.  Logan says she's pretty, "super-nice," and "really loaded."  But then, Kelly Travers being loaded bit isn't exactly a revelation.  She lives in a mansion.

(Don't worry, you'll meet the nice lady in question.  I'm letting things play out in logical, chronological sequence... like the municipal budget cycle.)

Anyway, Logan and I eat most of our bungalow meals together, watch TV and/or movies in the living room, exercise, do chores, etc.  We share the main bathroom, but each have our own bedrooms (with solid, locking doors), and Logan knows absolutely nothing about what I do for entertainment after we both retire to our respective bedrooms at night (or when she's away).

So, I have secure and reliable privacy and adequate (albeit modest) financial resources.  For those reasons I've long since moved on from makeshift self-binding materials and invested in proper equipment.

It's time to discuss the technical aspects of my "hobby."

BONDAGE TOYS

---

Cuffs.  I own four top-of-the-line bondage cuffs, one pair for my wrists and a second for my ankles, all in black leather with chrome hardware.  The main cuffs are 2½" wide, padded on the inside, and close by means of 1" outer straps with slots and lockable buckles.  I use dinky little steel padlocks so when I'm playing I can't grope and fumble with my desperate fingers and unbuckle the buckles.  And I'm talking small but real padlocks.  (More about them below.)  The cuffs fit snugly and comfortably and have hefty D-rings attached.  I can tug on them for hours with only a tiny bit of quickly fading redness on my wrists and/or ankles to show for it.

Gag.  I also own a top-of-the-line ball-gag.  The strap is black leather with chrome hardware (to match the cuffs), with slots and a lockable buckle (also to match the cuffs).  The mouth-plugging sphere is medical-grade silicon rubber, and after a lengthy internal debate I decided to go with a "medium" (1¾") diameter in black, as opposed to the traditional red.  If I feel the need to augment my damsel-silencer, I use a "flesh" colored elastic sports bandage with Velcro closure, sometimes augmented by a folded scarf placed over my already ball-gagged mouth.  I never use tape, not even hypoallergenic microfoam tape.  Why take the chance of skin irritation?

Collar.  Yes, of course I use a collar.  Helplessness.  It adds to the feeling.  Mine is what I call a semi-posture collar.  It's three-inches wide and allows a reasonable degree of head turning and tilting.  Full-blown posture collars are much wider and much more restrictive.  And yes, it's part of my matching bondage ensemble with black leather, padding, chrome hardware, a D-ring in front, and a lockable strap in the back.

Rope.  I've long since retired my ratty old collection of cotton clothesline and braided nylon and moved on to 6mm, twisted ply, conditioned, natural hemp rope.  The good stuff.  It's surprisingly expensive but worth it, in my opinion.  Various dyed colors are available, but I decided to go with "natural."  I almost went for black, but all my leather stuff is black, red and blue didn't appeal to me, so I went with natural.  You can't go wrong with natural.  I have numerous 10ft, 15ft, and 30ft bundles, and all the ends are whipped and sealed.

Cord.  Toes are for tying, especially big toes.  Everybody knows that.  I use 3mm nylon braided cord, and I found a 100ft bundle in a shade of brown that more-or-less matches my natural hemp rope.  So far I've only used a few 18" lengths (all with heat-sealed ends).  Most of the bundle is safely squirreled away in my Rubbermaid plastic storage box cleverly hidden in the back of my closet.

Chain.  I don't use chain.  I'd like to use chain, but it might scratch the furniture and/or the hardwood floor.  Also, it clinks and clanks and Logan might hear it.  Our bedrooms are at opposite ends of the hallway with the bathroom in between and our doors are pretty thick, but I suppose its possible... maybe.  So, no chain.

Padlocks.  They aren't those flimsy, cheap luggage locks you can spring open with a little effort.  I had to consult a locksmith, but eventually I found a source of keyed alike, sturdy, steel, ¾"-wide-at-the-base padlocks.  "Keyed alike" means they all open with a single key.  I own a dozen of them.  What's that you say?  Padlocks also clink and clank.  They do, but not the way chains clink and clank.  Besides, what choice do I have?

That brings us to...

RELEASE-TIMERS

---

I started out using variations of the classic "ice timer."  The essential elements are:

• A small, inconspicuous eye-bolt screwed into the rafter directly over my bed.
• A long length of heavy string or thin cord.  (I use 1.18mm braided nylon "micro cord," in coyote-brown.)
  
• The key needed to unlock my cuffs, collar, and gag.
• Some sort of "attachment detail" frozen inside an ice cube.

The key dangles just out of reach, the ice melts, and the key drops within the helpless damsel's reach.  The upside is psychological, the "so near but so far" element.  The downside is technological and generally related to the "attachment detail."  And as the saying goes, the devil is in the details.

The cord is coiled or folded, then frozen inside an ice cube.    Two problems:  (1.) If the ice cube is directly overhead, melt water drips onto the damsel and/or the mattress.  A single ice cube isn't much, but a wet spot is a wet spot.  This can be alleviated by dangling the key over the bed, but locating the ice cube elsewhere.  For example, one could run the cord either diagonally away from the bed or through a second eye-bolt screwed into a second rafter, then down to the attachment point.  Add a bowl under the melting ice and the wet-spot problem is solved.  (2.) Much more seriously, no matter how careful the preparation, frozen coils or folds of cord are unfrozen tangles waiting to happen.  Murphy's law.  The chosen technique might function flawlessly a thousand times, but one night—the ice will melt, a tangle will happen, the dangling key will remain dangling, and the helpless damsel will remain helpless.

The cord can be in cut into two pieces with the ends frozen together inside the ice cube.  A logical refinement is something like a couple of large beads, each tied to the end of a different cord to give the ice more surface area to grip.  That's pretty foolproof, but better yet...

Buy one of those stainless steel "ice timers."  They're two close-fitting steel cylinders with a steel ring on either end.  The just-barely-smaller cylinder slides inside the just-barely-larger, and usually there's a rod or rods, often with drilled holes to increase the surface area and give the ice more to grip.  Fill the larger cylinder with water, slide the cylinders together, and balance the now nested pair on the appropriate end in the freezer.  Wait for the water to freeze.  You attach one end to your key cord and the other to something solid.  The ice melts, the cylinders slide apart, and the key drops.  That's as foolproof as it gets.

However, there's an additional problem with any kind of ice timer: Logan.  She'd wonder why I'm freezing weird steel cylinder thingies in our kitchen freezer.  The same goes for cords in ice cube trays.  And there's no way I'm gonna buy a teeny-tiny freezer for my bedroom.  Do they even make teeny-tiny freezers?

Which leads us to...

Anne's Amazing Electromagnetic Timer Box System.  After a thorough search, I found the perfect electromagnetic door latch, the perfect electronic timer, and (at Pier-1 Imports) a really pretty decorative wooden box of just the right size.  I then got all do-it-yourself with our limited collection of hand and power tools and mounted the latch and timer mechanisms inside the box (with the AC power cord dangling out the back).

First, I carefully cut a slot in the box and mounted the latch inside so its electromagnetic plate is flush with the front surface.  Next, I drilled a counter-sunk hole in a tiny steel plate and screwed on a tiny eye-bolt.  When the power is OFF, the plate-and-eye-bolt are very weakly gripped by the electromagnet and said grip is easily defeated by the pull of a 1lb fishing weight.  When the power is ON, however, the grip is strong.  Even when I grab the plate-and-eye-bolt and pull, I can't defeat the electromagnet.  Just to be clear, that means the failsafe mode is power OFF, so a general power failure means the key drops immediately.

Finding a suitable electronic timer was the hardest part.  Most inexpensive models function in "clock-mode," turning things like table lamps on and off at preset times.  I needed something that also had a "stopwatch" function.    Most importantly, it had to be small enough to fit inside the box already holding the latch mechanism.  Finally, I found one.

So...  I dangle the key and fishing weight over the bed.  The cord passes through the eye-bolt in the rafter directly overhead, across to a second eye-bolt in a second rafter, then diagonally down to a convenient shelf of my Ikea bookshelf system and the timer box.  That leaves the key tantalizingly hovering more than two feet beyond the reach of the desperately struggling damsel on the bed (me), with the fishing weight up near the ceiling.  Also, I tied a large wooden bead in the cord between the two eye-bolts.  It's too big to pass through the eye, so it acts as a stop.

I know this is complicated, and if I was at work I'd fire up Powerpoint and make a stunningly artistic and compellingly informative diagram.  It has the proper tools (with clipart).  I'll do the best I can with a cleverly crafted table.

EYE-BOLT

― ―

―

WOODEN

― ― ― ―

2ND

OVER BED

BEAD

EYE-BOLT

|

\

FISHING

\

TIMER

▬

WEIGHT

EYE-BOLT

110v AC

|

& PLATE

BOX

KEY

TANTALIZING EMPTY SPACE

DAMSEL

ON THE BED

Darn I'm good!  Anyway, that should be clear enough.

Power ON—the key hovers over the bed, tantalizingly out of the reach of the poor, pathetically struggling, bound and gagged damsel.

Power OFF—the timer box releases the eye-bolt and plate, the fishing weight pulls it away from the box, the weight and key drop, and wooden bead hits the eye-bolt over the bed and stops the drop.   The key is now within easy reach of the damsel, but the weight is still hanging safely out of the way.

Power failure—the key drops immediately.  Foolproof!

That brings us to one of my typical sessions.  To advance the plot, I'll tell you about a particularly memorable session.

A PARTICULARLY MEMORABLE SESSION
FRIDAY
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

---

Yes, it was a dark and stormy night.  Not a lot of rain, but the wind was really blowing.

I don't do costumes.  I know some people like struggling in sexy lingerie, squeezing themselves into sweltering latex outfits, or cosplaying Batgirl, Mrs. Peel, Uhura, Sailor Moon, etc., but none of that appeals to me.  Nothing appeals to me, literally.  My one and only costume of choice is my "birthday suit," period.  Tell me a damsel isn't at her most helpless and vulnerable when she's naked.  I dare you!  Would the shower scene from Hitchcock's Psycho be such a cinematic icon if Janet Leigh had been trying on winter coats in the dressing room of a Burlington Coat Factory?  Hah!  End of discussion.

After my usual before-bed-toilette, I locked my bedroom door, changed into my costume, and rigged my key drop system (as described above).  I set the timer for three hours.  Rigging myself was gonna take several minutes and I wanted plenty of quality struggling time before the key dropped.  I then buckled on and padlocked my collar, followed by my wrist cuffs, followed by my ball-gag.  Having already decided this would be one of my "bat-shit-crazy-with-the-rope nights," I left the ankle cuffs in the closet and carried several bundles of hemp to the bed.  Also, a single 18" length of cord.

I was right about the rigging taking time.  The only light was from a weakly glowing, blue-green nightlight plugged into a baseboard wall socket across the room, but I'm used to it and I managed.  Anyway...

I tied my big toes together with the cord, then used rope to lash my ankles together.  I then rigged a running ladder-tie, binding my legs together every six inches from my ankles all the way to my upper-thighs.  All the bindings were cinched and tight enough to dimple my skin.  That would discourage me from trying to flex my knees and/or fold my legs.  The toe-cord was also cinched, but it wasn't especially tight and didn't need to be.  A long time ago I'd made the mistake of trying tight toe bondage.  Purple toes!  Ow!  I learned my lesson.

Next was a crotch-rope.  It encircled my waist a few times (tightly, like a mini-rope-corset), cleaved my butt-cheeks and labia (tightly), and had strategically placed figure-8-knots in the crotch-cleaving strand to "discourage" struggling.  The remaining and reasonably long free ends came together over my bellybutton and were secured with a square-knot.  One free end I passed down through my top thigh-bonds, just below my now hemp-cleaved crotch, back up to my waist-bonds, then down again.  I pulled out what little slack there was and tied a tight knot.  That left the other free end not tied to anything, but I'd make use if it shortly.

It turns out it's possible to give yourself a reasonably tight upper-body harness, complete with a shoulder-yoke to keep anything from shifting upwards and with cinches between your torso and upper-arms.  Having plenty of rope to work with, I added a crisscrossing "X" between my boobs, then passed the remaining free end from the crotch-rope up and through the "X", back down to my waist, pulled out the slack, and tied it off.  Now the harness was anchored down below and up above.  Also, all the knots, and I mean all the knots, were somewhere in front.

One step remained.  I squirmed and struggled and slid my arms under the harness ropes until my hands were behind my back, then fumbled for and found the open padlock I'd left lying on the bed.  I passed the padlock's shackle through the D-rings of my wrist-cuffs, and—moment of truth—snapped it closed.

There I was, naked, tightly bound from toes to shoulders, my wrists cuffed and padlocked together behind my back, a cruel collar padlocked around my neck (for no particular reason), and a padlocked ball-gag stifling my pitiful, mewling moans of terror.  Actually, I was keeping most of my pitiful, mewling moans to myself, but was making a little noise.  A little quiet noise.  Anyway...

O, the poor damsel!  Who will save her?

I wiggled and squirmed and rolled on the increasingly rumpled covers.  I'd done a really good job (if I do say so myself).  Everything was tight without being too tight, all the knots were completely out of the reach of my desperate, fluttering fingers, and I was really and truly helpless!

Good job Anne!

Time passed and my "efforts to escape" continued.  Unfortunately, freedom could only come at the cost of letting that pesky crotch rope slide back and forth and stimulate my increasingly moist pussy.  I had no choice!  It was a price I had to pay if I was going to escape the tight and cleverly tied ropes of... whatever villain or villainess had kidnapped me, stripped me naked, tied me up, and was eventually going to come back and do whatever they were going to do to me for whatever reason!

More time passed, my struggles remained futile, and the sliding crotch-knots continued becoming increasingly... interesting.  Very interesting.  It happens every time and there's nothing I can do about it!  I struggled and squirmed and struggled... and then... finally... inevitably... I writhed in orgasm!

"MRRRPFH!"

To paraphrase Julius Caesar—I came, the crotch-rope sawed, and the ropes continued to conquer.

"MRRRRMPFH!"

Imprudent?  Yes, but I couldn't help screaming.  No worries.  It's not like this was the first time I'd ever screamed in ball-gagged ecstasy.  Everything would be just fine.  It was well after our bedtimes and more than enough time had passed for Logan to be deep into REM sleep—behind her very solid bedroom door—waaay down the hallway—the other side of my very solid bedroom door.  Everything would be just fine.

Who was I kidding?

I already confessed that I've read my share of Sbf/Solo-F stories.  Maybe you have too.  So, tell me, what happens next?  What always happens next?

Knock-knock-knock!

That was my bedroom door!

"Anne?  Are you okay?"

And that, of course, was Logan!